


Black Like This

by Polly_Lynn



Category: Castle
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Early Mornings, Established Relationship, F/M, Introspection, POV Female Character, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-01-18
Packaged: 2018-09-18 07:12:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9373814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polly_Lynn/pseuds/Polly_Lynn
Summary: "She’s up before him, even though for once she doesn’t have to be."





	

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: 1300 words of projection on the first day of classes. It's harder than ever to get up after a sleepless night, but much of this feels true.

 

  
She’s up before him, even though for once she doesn’t have to be. For once, she’s the one with nowhere to go for a good, long while. The whole day long, if she’s lucky, and still, she’s up before him.

It’s absolutely black in the bedroom. Dark enough to leave her feeling weightless—more like her own shadow than anything—as she slips soundlessly across the floor and out the double doors into the loft, proper. She trails a hand along the book case. Peers through into the office and shivers deeper into her robe when it offers no relief. When the wall of glass on the far side offers almost nothing in the way of illumination.

 _Rain today,_ she remembers. _Cloud cover and fog and gloom._ She _thinks_ she remembers, but the lightlessness wraps around her, and she doesn't much care where it came from. How long it will stay. She doesn't much care.

She crosses the great room, toes chilled by the stretches of bare board between islands of thick pile carpet. She’s left her slippers again. She hops from one foot to the other. She almost goes back for them, but the black beckons. The thick totality of silence draws her on.

She moves through the kitchen, sure handed and efficient in the darkness. She nudges the handle of the faucet so the stream of water filling the carafe is no more than a whisper. Smiles to herself each time her hands find the thing she needs exactly in its place. Spoon. Canister. Her favorite mug. His favorite.

She could do this with her eyes closed, and it's more than a metaphor this morning. This dark winter morning, open or closed, it’s much the same, and she loves it.

It’s more than habit, being up before him when she needn’t be. It’s more than discipline. More than falling into her own shadow or the ghost of the hard woman she used to be.

She simply likes the black. She likes moving silently through it, efficient and alone for now. She likes the slick, cool surface of the counter under her palms. The hollow draw of water through the inner workings of the coffee maker and the tantalizing curl of steam. She likes it all, though weariness crashes over her again as she waits. As the scent tickles the back of her throat, a promise never soon enough fulfilled.

Her chin drops to her chest. Her eyes drift closed. Or maybe they don’t. She sways on her feet with the darkness settling on her shoulders.

The click startles her. The pop and hiss and burble of the last of the water forcing its way through the grounds jerks her back to awareness. Back to the black, and it’s good. It’s good, even though her jaw cracks with a wide yawn, and her fingers are suddenly clumsy around the handle of the pot. Her well-practiced count of seven is too slow and the coffee very nearly tops the rim. Very nearly.

She stoops for the first scalding sip. Hums into the mug and feels the ripples radiating out from her lips and back again. She thinks about the floor. About sinking down right there into the blacker-than-black between the island and the cabinets, but the urge to surrender doesn't last. Even today it doesn't.

She pushes off the counter. Her feet are heavy. Shuffling and sliding now, but there's satisfaction in that. In knowing every luxury is hers if she wants it. Fumbling fingers and leaden feet. Eyes drifting closed and a mind setting sail on this sea of black. She has nowhere and nothing to be but here. But this.

She moves slowly, quietly, thinking about the gas fire along the way. She craves the warmth, even with her mug and his curled warming her palms, curling up to kiss the underside of her chin. She passes it by anyway. She trails regretful fingers along the smooth silver frame. She wants the black more, and as for warmth . . . .

She smiles. Sinks to the couch and buries herself in the blankets always right at hand. She pulls her freezing toes up, knees to chest, and waits, but not for long. She cocks her head toward the bedroom and listens as she curls herself around her mug and sips.  

  
It’s a long time between sounds at first. From groan to hiss to the thud of reluctant footsteps, it's a long time, but she never doubts herself. She knows the absence of light, and there he is now. She glimpses him out of the corner of her eye. He’s a silhouette, stumbling. Black on black coming toward her quickly. Unerringly and precisely in sync with this shadow of herself here on the couch. Here in this lightless moment.

She holds the mug high just in time. Just as he collapses heavily around her. Somehow entirely around her, blankets and all. She holds it high, and he plucks it from her fingers. He sips greedily. Groans with satisfaction as the taste filters over his tongue.

"Black," he says, complaining and not. Filing it away as a curious thing, even as he hands the mug back to her. "No vanilla. Not even sugar."

"Sugar in _yours._ "

She tips her head back toward the end table. Toward his favorite mug, knowing that it's doomed. That it'll grow cold while he winds himself around her. While the sky grows as light as it will today.

"Yours is better," he murmurs, nosing his way in for a kiss. For a taste of it from the tip of her tongue. "Sweet anyway."

"Liar." She holds the mug up and away from him. Doesn't resist when he snatches it back to steal another sip. "Liar," she says again, stealing a taste of her own from the corner of his mouth.

"You're up." He says it with some surprise. With a shake of his head, like he might have forgotten something. She feels his lashes brush her cheek as he opens his eyes wide, struggling. "Just me today, right?"

"Just you." She turns her body into his. She fusses with the blankets, wrapping them tighter together. "A while yet, though." She lets him curl her fingers around the handle of the mug. Dips her head and takes another sip to hide the sudden frown he can't possibly see in the dark. "It's early."

"You're out here, though," he says, wondering, "black coffee and all."

"I like it." She's suddenly earnest. Suddenly forthright. "Black like this." She presses the warm curve of the cup back into his palm. "Dark like this. I like it," she repeats, as though he's arguing with her. As though he might, if she lets him get a word in edgewise.

"Quiet," he says. He's mulling it over. Willing to see it her way, even though his eyes are closing on him as he tips the mug back again. Even though he'd just as soon drift back to sleep right here. "Solitude."

That stirs him. It warms the skin of his cheek with a blush. With uncertainty, but she'll have none of it. She twines her calves around his. She takes the mug from his hand and reaches past him. Over his head to abandon it on the end table. To let it grow cold while the sky grows as light as it will today.

"This," she mutters against his chest.

She feels heavy. Right, and more than a shadow of herself now. And that's the secret. Dark giving way to light, though she still can't see a thing. Chill surrendering to warmth, though the day promises rain and cloud cover and gloom. Sweet anyway. That's the secret she tells him in the black. In the gloom, and he believes her. He smiles into her kiss.

"Just like this."

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks, as always, for reading.


End file.
